What Once Has Been
by Inkfire
Summary: Through the eyes of a pretty and pale girl who may look too much like her father, Molly Weasley's past comes back to kick her in the teeth. Round Ten of the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge, also written for Hogwarts Online.


**A one-shot for the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge.  
Round Ten: Molly/Xenophilius.  
Also fits Hogwarts Online's Prompt of the Day for Monday, August 22nd: Memory.  
My first 3K fic ever, and thus dedicated to Mistical Ninja, because he is the 3K guru, and deserves to have stuff dedicated to him anyway ^^**

* * *

"Mum, can I invite Luna for dinner tonight?"

The bowl she'd been holding crashed onto the floor, sliding out of her numb hand, and she did not turn to greet her energetic, lovely, demanding daughter.

"Not tonight, dear. I've already made dinner," she quickly replied.

"Don't tell me you can't add a plate!" She could hear the pleading pout in her voice. "Tomorrow?"

_Tomorrow, no. Never._

_There is no way out of this._

"Tomorrow would be perfect, sweetheart," she agreed, hollow-voiced. "Now wash your hands, lunch is almost served."

She moved in a trance, not minding the shattered bowl on the floor.

* * *

Tomorrow, Luna Lovegood in her house. Little Luna, odd little Luna hanging around with Ginny, and she would stare at them. And maybe her father would come, and Arthur would ask him to stay for a drink, maybe even for dinner. Sitting in her house, at her table, with her children and her husband, staring Xenophilius Lovegood in the face. Thinking of _it_. The impossible. The impossible that had happened. Looking at his little girl, and feeling a pinch, perhaps...

Molly was delaying the time to go to bed. Arthur was probably up there already, waiting for her, perhaps reading a book, something about Muggles. She patted the armchair and rearranged the trinkets absent-mindedly. Tokens of their lives, lovely little things they had bought together, found together, cutely ugly artsy creations of their children's. This was her life. This had always been meant to be her life. Arthur and her, meant to be. And being a mother.

She'd never had a doubt about all of this.

(She'd never felt she really had a choice, either.)

(It had been _it _and nothing else.)

She didn't want something different. She would never want anything different. But the children were grown and at school all year, and all day she was alone, in the house, with her meant-to-be existence. And perhaps it was dangerous, to face Xenophilius Lovegood and his pale blue eyes that were easy and yet impossible to read. No. She was fussing over nothing. It was summer and her children were home, all of them, the whole family together – and she had never been stronger in her belief that everything was as it was meant to be. And Xeno Lovegood, with his silly paper and his odd little girl and his deceased wife and loneliness and soft-soft eyes, couldn't do anything against her.

Not that he would. It was herself, she abruptly realized, that she didn't trust – and the sheer novelty of that all-too-familiar feeling made her want to _scream_.

* * *

She sort of wanted to read the letters again, and words could not express how much she loathed herself for it.

They were locked away in a tiny chestnut oak box on the very corner of her wardrobe, on the left, under a small pile of wooden scarves. She had not even looked at the box for twenty years. There were three letters written in navy blue ink and signed "Xeno". Wrapped in a tissue was the tiny amethyst necklace that he had once given her, causing her to realize, in a way, what she was doing, and call off whatever had been going on between them in horror and disgust. She wondered whether he had been hurting a lot, and how long. The last of the letters would be along the lines of "Don't leave me". No, she wouldn't be rereading them. Molly could not quite believe what was going through her mind. She felt edgy and unsettled and she slammed the wardrobe door and flew down the stairs, arriving, breathless, in their living room.

She crumbled into her husband's favourite armchair with a sigh. Twenty-five years they had spent here, already. Twenty-five years of births and birthdays and anniversaries and love, of a happy, fulfilled family life. Fulfilled. Molly Weasley had been fulfilled. She had had no doubts, no hesitations, she had been a good mother, a wonderful wife...

(Only scarlet women cheated on their husbands. Didn't they?)

Molly cringed and balled her fists tightly. If only Xenophilius Lovegood, good-for-nothing crazy dreamer Xenophilius Lovegood had never come into her life. But why on earth had she done this anyway? Of all people, Xenophilius Lovegood – when she had Arthur.

(Perhaps she had always been drawn to weirdos?)

But she had ended it, she told herself fiercely. She had finally come to her senses. It had just been that, a mistake of her youth, a bitter burning mistake, and Arthur had never known, could never _imagine_...

(It made it all the more disgusting.)

Molly took a deep breath and told herself that everything would be all right. She was in control. She would see the girl and be perfectly sweet to her, and she probably wouldn't even see Xenophilius. She could hide in the kitchen, pretend to be busy. Bill and Charlie had just arrived, Harry and Hermione would probably join them in a few weeks. She had a dozen perfect excuses to avoid seeing this man. Arthur knew that she'd never liked him anyway.

Oh no, she'd never liked him. There was no doubt on that side. Right when he'd arrived, popped up at their door and introduced himself as their new neighbour – immediate dislike. And she _had _tried to keep him away, argued with Arthur that their houses were one mile apart, that they had no obligation whatsoever of befriending a lonely little loony with no family. But Arthur had stood his ground and she'd huffed and scoffed and marched into the kitchen or the upper floors with her newborn son in tow as the two men chattered nonsense in her living room, barely minding little Bill, who could have fallen or hurt himself for all they noticed...

...yes, how she'd hated him, the intruder, always cheerful and oblivious to her cold attempts to make him realize that he was unwelcome, always waltzing in with stupid and more often than not dangerous little gifts for the boys, always filling Arthur's head with imbecile fantasies... always off in his little world... he'd been a pain, an erratic and unpleasant addition to the balance of their perfect little home life. But then the war had come in unwanted, too, a bigger concern endangering her peace of mind, drawing her husband in...

Her lungs tightened and her jaw locked, bitter tears stinging her eyes. She didn't want to think about this. But yes, blame it on the war. Blame everything on the war, a life-crusher, stealing away her sanity along with her brothers, and Xenophilius Lovegood, he'd seemed so far away from it all... he wasn't someone she was scared of seeing die and he wasn't someone for whose sake she had to be brave, he was a stranger but not one whose opinion of her she gave half a damn about and so... she had crumbled.

Now, in the familiar setting of her living room, she entertained the notion that he had taken advantage – of her momentary weakness. How very soothing this lie, this fragile, stubborn lie that everything about Xenophilius, from eyes to shy mouth to long, thin, delicate hands, seemed to deny, and yet that her own guilt-plagued and spiteful mind refused to let go of. She had gone to visit him to bring something Arthur had wanted to send him, she could have owled it, had she not yearned to see another face – and his face, it had looked the living contrary of war, dreamy and sweet and soft, the contrary of her martyr brothers, her brothers who – _had – just – died_, and yes she had crumbled. She had cried and wailed and sobbed and he had...

What had he done, actually? And that was where the lie fell to pieces, because he'd done nothing – he'd stood there _helpless_ – and she had sought his human warmth. She'd sought his lips on hers, his embrace, on a thoughtless, furious whim, and after the first few startled seconds his arms had locked around her small frame – his only crime, and everything had closed up around them into a hot, blurry reality.

Molly's palms bled from her own furious nails as she looked across the room, jaw rigid, her shaky gaze so different and yet the same as it had been on this very room that following evening. A gaze from outside her carefully sheltered world, a gaze clear and new, numbly, dizzyingly new – but a gaze that guilt hadn't touched yet. She hadn't been truly realizing at that time. She was a housewife and a mother in the middle of a war, she was young still, and completely foreign and eras and worlds away from this little room and her boys and her reality, there was a nameless woman in a weirdo's house who had felt a passion yet unknown and done things that didn't seem quite true. And Molly Weasley had gone to bed with a husband she so dearly loved.

But she had ended it, she thought with a desperate rage, _she had ended it_. She had, after three months – after he'd dared offer her something, for her birthday, a purple piece of jewelry – an amethyst, the gem of humility, sincerity, wisdom (or so he'd said, as if he would know about _wisdom_). She had felt then like the whore she really was, and hated him, hated him so much, slapped him and shrieked and sent the gift flying across the room. But had the tiny stone been more traitorous than than the letters, the kisses, the whispers of his name, no, a thousand dizzying times _no_ – it had only been something she'd have to hide. It was taking tangible proof of her betrayal into her own house, it was admitting, perhaps, that Arthur had never given her such a pretty gift – _no_ – and so she'd pushed him away, self-righteous, self-loathing and adamant. She'd locked herself into her house, focusing entirely on her sons, tossing his one and only last letter into a drawer without even properly reading it – and she had to admit he'd let her get rid of him. He hadn't come. He'd never come again.

(Arthur had wondered why. _It's been months_, Arthur had said, and she'd said _Yes, what a pity. Ever since the war started, in fact. But Arthur, dear, you know that I've never liked him_. And he had dropped the subject.)

Blame it on the war. Blame everything on the war. And so she'd gone on.

So had he.

Molly stood, leaping to her feet like a jack-in-the-box. Loathing herself for thinking about it, about him, about everything. Years and years it had been. She was safe from him now, safe. He wouldn't come, he wouldn't _dare_, but she would meet his girl. It couldn't bring any harm. Little Luna Lovegood coming to see her Ginny. Two innocent young girls, universes away from their parents' flaws.

She set off to her kitchen, willing herself to get a hold on things again.

Molly fussed and fussed, alone in the kitchen, every two minutes glancing at her clock. Ginny's hand said "At a friend's" and in less than half an hour the intruder would be there. Luna, innocent Luna, she reminded herself, poor motherless little girl who wasn't to be blamed for her irresponsible parents. But all the same Molly's fingers were shaking as she waved her wand messily, frantically. All the same she couldn't help but wonder so obsessively who the girl looked like, who she was most like... And she didn't quite know what she would hate most – Xeno's spitting image, or the shadow of a woman she had never known.

Ginny had never been at Luna's before, she realized, and well, all the better. The girls hadn't even been friendly before this year. _Ravenclaw_, her daughter had said, _a bit strange, but really, really nice_. It was only a temporary interest, she was sure, because the girl happened to live close by. Her Ginny had better friends. But all the same she would meet Xenophilius. Molly didn't want her old – _lover_ – anywhere close to her daughter, and she didn't think twice about Xeno's own feelings about the whole thing. Never mind if he hurt, she'd made him suffer before. It was all his fault anyway. Molly had never pondered much about Xenophilius' feelings, so why should she start now? He was her mistake – her _crime_ – and nothing else. And his daughter, she was unwanted in Molly's house, and she'd make sure that the girl only came once, to the best of her ability. Ginny was better off without her. It'd be as simple as that.

In the shelter of her kitchen, Molly took a deep breath and thought that she was going to make it through.

* * *

His eyes. His mouth. His hair. His stupid ideas, and – Merlin, his laugh –

"A bit of pork, dear?"

"No thank you, Mrs Weasley," Luna Lovegood replied, beaming.

Molly forced another smile.

Everything about the girl made her want to seethe. Her ridiculous jewelry, her little, high, merry voice, her radiant happiness at being invited somewhere – a feat which seemed remarkably unlikely and probably wouldn't happen again anytime soon – her looks, behaviour and most of all the facts that Ginny seemed to like her and that Arthur was smiling, entertained. Her boys had stared a bit incredulously at the little oddity – Percy's eyes had widened spectacularly – but still, _she _had to pretend and in that she was alone. The girl looked silly, crazy even, Molly judged, and it wasn't only her father's influence – she very obviously had inherited his loony character. She was a little freak in the making, never to achieve everything in the world – good job she had her father's rag for a possible career.

It was not surprising, any woman having married Xenophilius Lovegood was bound to be mad as a hatter. Poor child hadn't stood a chance. Still. Molly had never met with the likes of Anaximandra Lovegood, wed to Xenophilius after a couple of weeks with no real ceremony, witch extraordinaire who had died a few years prior in a tragic accident her own reckless experiments had caused, or so Molly had gathered. Now she was staring at their girl and wondering what the deceased mother had been like. Reluctant as she was to admit it, the child had the slightest hint of something angelic in her features, a prettiness that mixed with her father's haggard looks into something quite unique. When she spoke she looked like a lunatic, but when she laughed she looked something like a barefooted princess fallen from her throne, an angel with messy hair and mangled wings, so pale, so eerie.

Molly breathed carefully in and out and made sure that her voice wasn't shaky, but actually came out sounding cheerful. She sat, ate, smiled and took care of everything, feeling edgy yet powerful, in control. Inside she was aching to ask about Xenophilius. It wouldn't do. And anyhow, she had no reason to ask. Ginny chattered and Luna laughed and then she said something about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, the words "my father" hit Molly's ear, and of course, as couldn't be avoided, Arthur asked:

"And by the way, how is your father, dear?"

Molly did not look up from her plate at once. She heard the girl chirping through an odd buzzing in her ears:

"He is quite well, thank you, Mr Weasley. Very much focusing on his research. He is making experiments about the diadem of Ravenclaw at the moment."

A vicious voice in Molly's head snarled that experiments had only taken the girl's mother so far, and she had to grip her fork considerably tighter so that she would regain control over herself.

"Yes, and you are a Ravenclaw, aren't you?" Arthur was going on, "So was your father. He was one year younger than Molly and myself, and yet he was asked to tutor me in Transfiguration. A very amazing young man, even at that time. I haven't seen him for so long."

"Have we ever met him, dad?" Percy asked politely.

"Actually, Bill and Charlie have, but I think he stopped coming a short while before your birth already, Percy. This has always quite puzzled me."

"Arthur," Molly immediately chided with a half-gesture towards Luna, but the girl was already replying:

"You must forgive him, Mr Weasley. My father's research is the very core of his life, and one day he is destined to greatness. Besides, I was told he took even more distance with the outside world as soon as he met my mother."

"Yes." Arthur was hesitating, not looking at the girl's face now. "Yes, indeed."

"Or maybe a bit before," Luna continued, "but I am sure he had his reasons, and you both must forgive him."

Molly started a little at being included. For a few seconds she met Luna's gaze and the girl stared back calmly. There was in her blue orbs something oddly akin to wisdom that triggered a flame of anger licking Molly's insides. Wisdom of all things, in this thirteen-year-old oddity's eyes, her father's eyes. Really. But she tamed the unwelcome feeling, and forced a smile.

"Be sure we already have," she spoke.

"Certainly, certainly!" cried Arthur, "he is welcome to visit anytime he wants!"

Luna smiled serenely.

* * *

"Can I help you, Mrs Weasley?"

Molly whirled around, very nearly dropping the plate she'd been washing. The girl stood in the doorway, all pale face and soft smile, almost Xenophilius gazing calmly across the room into her eyes through that slight silhouette, yet also a shadow, foreign, that she somehow deemed accusing, though it might as well not have been. She could scarcely hear her own words, small and distorted beneath the messy beating of her heart as she spoke quietly, shakily:

"No thank you, dear. Go and see Ginny. It is she you are here for after all."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she fully realized how awkward they might sound, but Luna did not flinch and looked altogether untroubled. She kept smiling and said softly:

"I've truly enjoyed being here, Mrs Weasley. I cannot thank you enough for letting me come."

"But darling, it was normal," she croaked, "you have nothing to thank me for."

"I feel that I do." Luna's eyes had never left her face.

"Thank you, Mrs Weasley. I'll be going back to my father soon now, but I wanted to tell you this before I leave. And take care of yourself."

The words were so odd and her gaze was so deep, that Molly opened and shut her mouth again without a sound, and little Luna floated away, having said what she wanted to say.

Molly let go of the plate, and slowly sank down into a chair, her heart in her throat and a bitter taste in her mouth.

It was a taste of her own selfishness.


End file.
